


"There's a severed head in the fridge" "Just tea for me thanks"

by evelynconstance



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: First Kiss, Johnlock Fluff, Just diving straight in, M/M, No angsy stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2014-05-14
Packaged: 2018-01-24 20:02:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1615340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evelynconstance/pseuds/evelynconstance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is sick of picking up abandoned experiments and seeing severed heads in the fridge so he stops. Sherlock isn’t too pleased.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"There's a severed head in the fridge" "Just tea for me thanks"

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic on here, I'm sorry if its shit. Comment!

“Tea”

 

It wasn’t a question. John looked up over his book and raised his eyebrow across the room from his armchair by the fire.

“I’m sorry?” He asked, bringing the book down and looking over at his flat mate that was sprawled across the sofa.

“TEA” He shouted, brining his arms down onto the sofa with a thud. John pursed his lips, when he moved in with Sherlock he wasn’t expecting to become a personal housemaid.

“You know where the kitchen is” John said, going back to his book “you blow it up enough anyway” he mumbled, trying to find where he was before he was demanded at.

Sherlock groaned. Bringing his hands through his hair he ruffled it before letting them drop again back onto the sofa.

Sherlock knew how to get John to do things. He knew just what to say, expected the exasperated sigh when he was overly dramatic and sometimes didn’t mind when Sherlock demanded tea.

This, obviously, wasn’t one of those times.

Sherlock sank back against the sofa and steepled his fingers against his lips.

_John is a caregiver. He cares for people; he fixes people for a living. He likes doing this. He likes helping but he wont help me. He knows I can do it myself, that’s why he won’t do it for me. But sometimes he does, not conclusive… John is polite, good mannered –always apologizing. What’s the one he’s always saying?_

_Please!_

_Okay, commencing ‘Please John’…_

Sherlock had gone unnervingly quiet. John knew this wasn’t good; he peeked over his book to find Sherlock sitting crossed legged in front of him, a smile on his face.

John’s eyebrows knitted together, he knew this wouldn’t end up well. He tried doing some of the ‘deducing’ Sherlock was always boasting about.

_Okay. He’s been asking for tea. He never makes it- it’s always me. He’s been pleading, no demanding the drink and now he’s quiet._  
 _He’s plotting, been plotting. He’s got a plan, that’s why he’s here._  
 _He wants me to make some tea and he’s trying to be polite about it._

_Manipulative little shit._

John sighed, placed his bookmark between the page he hadn’t moved from, and placed his book on the small table by his arm.

He rubbed his eyes, stretched his arms and kicked out his legs. Sherlock’s smile turned to a grin and he fingers were tapping against the carpeted floor.

John stood up, side stepped the small pile of murder mystery books that Scotland Yard had given Sherlock as a joke and made his way towards the kitchen. He stepped over the small pile of frozen guinea pig brains and flicked on the kettle as he dropped the Micro-bacteria experiment Sherlock had finished last week.  
As the kettle boiled, John washed the petri dish, dried it and dropped it into the small draw that was devoted to his flat mates science paraphernalia and got two mugs out of the very top shelf that Sherlock could reach but John really couldn’t.

Once the tea bag had been squished just the right amount into the water, John turned to the fridge and opened the door making sure not to pull too hard on the duck taped handle that was still _just_ attached to the door.

His eyes scanned past the glass jar of eyeballs on the top shelf, the served head on the middle shelf and the frozen fingers salad in the veg draw.

“Sherlock, I told you that severed heads go on the bottom shelf. You’ll contaminate the food!” John shouted from the kitchen. Silence met him as a reply and he rolled his eyes and slammed the fridge door shut.

Once the tea was made and a small teaspoon of sugar was stirred into Sherlock’s, John carried the two mugs back into the living room.

To John’s surprise, Sherlock smiled in thanks at John. John was a little taken aback at this sudden change in behavior but was fast asleep on the sofa with a stomach filled with tea before he could question it.

-

The next morning, John woke up to the sound of a loud bang followed by Sherlock’s curses. He groaned, rolled out of bed rather reluctantly and stumbled to the kitchen.

The cupboards were singed with a black carbon and Sherlock had a rather cross look on his face.

 _It was too early to be handling this_ , John thought.

“Clean this up, have a shower and move that severed head” John ordered.

Sherlock tried to glare at John but the carbon deposit caked on his goggles stopped him. He pulled the off his face and perched them on top of his curls and glared at John. The contrast of pale white mask across Sherlock’s eyes and the black of the rest of his face made John almost giggle.

_Almost._

His lips quivered as the giggle was suppressed but Sherlock didn’t see. He was too busy storming off towards the bathroom in a strop.

John let out a small giggle when he heard the water running.

 

He had clearly told Sherlock to clean up the explosion after he’d cleaned himself up but the man appeared back from his shower in a starch white shirt. John frowned as the man flopped onto the sofa, kicking his stocking feet up onto the crowded coffee table.

“What happened to cleaning the kitchen?” He asked, dropping the magazine he was reading in his lap.

“White shirt John” he said, motioning to his chest “plus, I’ve just showered”

John rolled his eyes “Wear an apron”

“We don’t have an apron”

“Yes we do. I used it last week while I was cleaning up another science experiment you’d just left.”

Sherlock was silent.

“Sherlock, what’s happened to the apron?”

“I might, or might not, have dropped a chemical acid onto it and burnt a rather large hole,” He said, avoiding John’s angry glare.

“It was a ghastly shade of pink.” Sherlock added, daring a glance. He visibly winced.

John took some steadying breaths and closed the magazine. He stood up, straightened his shirt, collected his coat and left the flat.

Sherlock heard the echoing thud of the front door and sunk back into the cushions.

_Maybe it was something I said._

 

John usually took walks when he was angry with Sherlock. Surprisingly enough, these walks were regular. They were after cases when Sherlock was bored, when Sherlock was bored he started experiments, when Sherlock started experiments he usually didn’t clean them up. Usually was more like never.

John ended up outside the small corner shop a couple of blocks over. It was where he normally ended up marching off to, as it was an automatic route whenever he left the house for no real apparent reason. He sighed and walked in, grabbing a small pint of milk, because you always need milk, and a small packet of strawberry sweets. After a lap of the park and a sit on the bench John decided that people watching without the deductions from Sherlock was boring and he started his way home.

_Everything was pretty boring without Sherlock._

-

When John arrived back at the flat, he paused just before the stairs. There was no sound of crashing, flickering flames, screaming or on one-occasion gunshots.

_Maybe Sherlock was asleep._

John dismissed that thought as soon as it had come into his mind. _Sherlock didn’t sleep._

He trudged up the stairs, knowing that Sherlock already knew it was him from his footfalls on the wooden stairs or something that seemed so unbelievably untrue from anyone else’s mouth but Sherlock’s and continued up the stairs.

Sherlock hadn’t moved an inch since John had left. John supposed he knew that was going to happen and the quick glance at the still black kitchen cupboard confirmed his assumptions.

John sighed and placed the milk in the fridge, just past the eyeballs, and didn’t bother with dinner. He left the kitchen with an orange and peeled it as he walked to the bathroom. Orange now consumed, John brushed his teeth, got into his pjamas and fell into bed.

-

John didn’t hear Sherlock go to bed, he usually heard the quiet thud of the door closing down the hall, but woke up the next morning well rested and very hungry.

John rubbed his eyes and willed himself to get up. He trudged down the hall into the kitchen, the lingering smell of burnt toast hung in the air, and turned to the fridge.

His eyes scanned past the eyeballs on the top shelf, just next to the olives.

The small plate of leftovers, a shepherd’s pie that Mrs. Hudson brought up and another jar of eyeballs on the middle shelf.

And smiled at the severed head on the bottom shelf.

_The severed head on the bottom shelf._

Sherlock had just walked into the kitchen, staring over John’s shoulder to see what was so fascinating that had appeared in the fridge over night when his face was clasped by two hands and his lips attacked with someone else’s.

It was a chaste kiss and Sherlock had no time to react but as soon as the feeling was gone, he instantly wanted more.

“You moved the severed head,” John mumbled into his shoulder, pulling away to face the man.

“You moved it”

Sherlock had a very confused look on his face but just smiled as he nodded.

“If that’s all I had to do to get you to kiss me, I would have moved the severed head much earlier” He blurted out.

John froze, blinked and laughed. He pulled Sherlock back into another kiss not caring if he wasn’t gay or the awkwardness that could ensue.

_The severed head had been moved to the bottom shelf._

 

Its like Christmas has come early.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, don't forget to kudos!


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